Helpless
by JestaAriadne
Summary: After the partitions, Poland crashes at France's place for a while. France is enchanted from the first. After Russia visits on diplomatic business and brings Lithuania with him, France has to decide exactly how much he should say. [Fighting. Vague references to sex, vague references to abuse. (Not) FraPol (quite); (not) LietPol (anymore).]


Alone together after dinner, the question he's clearly been chewing at for hours slips from Poland's lips.

"Was Lithuania there?"

"…Yes, he was," France says carefully.

"Was he — how was he?" The change that comes over Poland's face is startling. No customary scowl or determined smile, he looks terrifyingly defenceless.

Well then, and how to answer?

In the end, it's very simple. One little lie. France is something of an expert on relationships, diplomatic and otherwise, after all, and he sees just how this will play out. Indeed, it hardly has to be a lie at all. That Lithuania was there with Russia, that he was well-dressed, favoured, Russia's personal aide… that he didn't once ask about _you_, Poland… all this is true. If he omits the rest…

If he says, in effect, that Lithuania is happy and settling well and no longer cares for you — and for all you've been trying to hide it, you're just _aching_ for him, you love him desperately… —France knows people. Rage and denial, maybe, but he thinks with Poland in the state he is, it will soon be just despair. And poor little Poland all alone in the world.

Tell that one simple story, and this beautiful, charming, infuriating boy of a fallen nation will fall into his arms, into his bed if he wants. Defiant. Distraught. And not, France can guarantee, _entirely_ inconsolable.

Oh, France wants. Very much.

A simple lie, and he'll quench his remorse with the taste of Poland's skin, any protestations of his conscience will be drowned out by the sounds of their pleasure. He thinks he's loved him since first he crossed the threshold. He turns pages for him at the piano just to be near to him, he brushes and ties back his hair just to let his fingers idle at the curve of his neck, and Poland sighs, relaxed now, no longer afraid of touch. He memorises each of Poland's expressions, and he loves his smiles best. He wants to make Poland so happy, and he _could_; he wants him insensible in ecstasy. Most of all, he just _wants_…

It doesn't do to dwell on such thoughts.

France tells Poland the truth.

He did not see much of Lithuania, and heard even less from him. But it was enough. France knows people, after all.

This is the truth of it:

That Lithuania startled sometimes at sudden noises, as Poland did, but that he did not flinch when Russia touched him. Rather, he went utterly, unnaturally still, like a soldier at attention. And when Russia's hands lingered, when he leaned down to speak a quiet word in his ear, Lithuania's muscles shook from the strain. Russia did these things a lot, and in France's sight. Lithuania said very, very little.

Were Lithuania's injuries substantially worse than Poland's own when they were parted? No? Then… charitably, one must say that he seems to be healing somewhat slower. And given Poland's (technical) status as no kind of a nation at all anymore, that is a little hard to parse.

France had quite expected Russia to be irritating and above himself and creepy as always; he'd not been surprised at his snooty attitude and the way he kept dropping words like _fraternité_ sarcastically into conversation. But the cruelty to his underlings, rather than enemies, that seemed be taking root in Russia's character… that was a bad sign. Despite everything, France had rather hoped for a while that they were all moving past that sort of thing.

Poland looks lost.

"Liet," he says very quietly.

Then he looks up at France with eyes wide and for a second France thinks he might get that intimate moment born out of desperation after all and he does not want it, not like this. But the moment passes; Poland's eyes narrow and he seems to draw within himself a thousand miles away.

For some reason, in the whole range of France's imagined scenarios, having to physically restrain Poland from dashing off to get himself horribly maimed in a harebrained assassination attempt had not featured. It should have topped the list.

"Right. _Right_," Poland mutters, and stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"Getting a gun."

"_What_?" France jumps to his feet and runs after him up the stairs.

"You can't stop me."

"Yes, yes I can," France says, catching up in long easy strides.

Poland tries to slam the study door in his face, but France pushes back against it in time and they glare at each other through the gap. Finally Poland gives up the struggle, letting the door fall open as he sprints across to the gun cabinet and fumbles with the latch.

France steps forwards slowly. "Think about what you're doing. Is it that you _want_ to hand yourself back to Russia? That's an extremely bad idea."

"I'm going to kill him." He has a pistol in hand, one of a pair of gilt-inlaid dueling pistols; on looks alone the best of the bunch. France could laugh or cry: it's so pretty. "I'm going to totally —"

"Oh?" France cuts him off, and _laughs_. "Since that worked out _so_ well for you last time, you mean?"

It has the desired effect. Poland flies at him, enraged. It is depressingly easy for France to tackle him and seize his wrists even as Poland tries to brain him with the pistol. The difference in strength between them at the moment is astronomical: it is like fighting a child, but like a child Poland struggles ferociously, kicks him in the shins and in a moment of distraction the pistol catches France across the side of the face. Pain blossoms through his cheek and he bites down on his tongue, _hell_. Sick at heart and furious with the whole situation, he shoves Poland hard against a wall, his head slamming back and all the breath knocked out of him. France plucks the pistol from his hand, turns away and replaces the damn thing in its cabinet. When he looks back, Poland has sunk to his knees, weeping.

France crouches down and puts his arms around him, only for Poland to shudder violently and choke on a sob. He keeps on choking, tries to stop and hyperventilates, collapses against France's shoulder.

"Stupid Paris," Poland sobs at last, "I've only been here a couple weeks, and I've already got stupid _consumption_ or something."

Feeling worse than ever, France tries to honour this with a shaky laugh. "Consumption is hardly a uniquely Parisian problem… and I don't think — "

"Yeah?" Poland retorts, wiping his face angrily with his sleeve, "well, how come I never had a problem with it before? Huh? It's not funny! Whatever, it looks like I'm gonna die here one way or another _anyway_: I mean, that, or you might just throw me down the stairs or through a window if I piss you off, right? That _hurt_, France —"

"For God's sake!" France shouts in his face, the worst possible way to drown out the remorse, "you are not consumptive, you've just lost a war, and they tore you to messes, that is the _problem_! And I was trying to stop you _going back for more_, you perfect little fool!"

Poland just looks at him, and then down at the floor, and the tears fall in silence.

"I didn't protect him," he whispers. "I didn't, and now he's being hurt and I can't stop it."

France's heart aches with an answering pang. Poland is hurting and there is nothing he can do. Apparently he can only save him from more harm by beating him down again, by showing him to be powerless; God in Heaven, what a world.

Poland retires to the bedroom, saying he's tired, and closes the door. France hovers, partly to make sure he doesn't try anything stupid like climbing out of the window. He hears the wretched sounds of Poland punching something - the bed, himself? - and gasping convulsively and muffled as if he's pressed a pillow over his face to stifle the wracking sobs or his own breathing.

Helpless, France wishes he'd chosen the simple lie.


End file.
